


Black Gold, Texas Tea

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Demisexual Sherlock, Gen, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, References to Abbey Grange, Romantic Fluff, Schmoop, Southern United States, Sweet Tea, Texas, sweeter than sweet tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Uh...this is...wrong on so many levels."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>The waitress spun back around in an instant, quite an accomplishment for someone wearing such cheaply-constructed heels. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>"Everything OK, Sug? Oh, that's right. People from England drink theirs hot. Even in the summertime." She turned back to me, whispering as if she was uttering some conspiratory plot, "We only like it like that when it's cold out. Which is, maybe for two, three weeks a year. The ice storms come somewhere between the heat that'll make ya melt and the tornadoes."</i>
</p><p>From BBC kinkmeme prompt: "Sherlock doesn't like tea. John makes a lot of tea and Sherlock understands that it means "I love you." I'd be happy with platonic, asexual Sherlock, Johnlock, unrequited, whatever - just some nice sappy schmoop :-)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Gold, Texas Tea

"Uh...this is...wrong on so many levels."

The waitress spun back around in an instant, quite an accomplishment for someone wearing such cheaply-constructed heels. 

"Everything OK, Sug? Oh, that's right. People from England drink theirs hot. Even in the summertime." She turned back to me, whispering as if she was uttering some conspiratory plot, "We only like it like that when it's cold out. Which is, maybe for two, three weeks a year. The ice storms come somewhere between the heat that'll make ya melt and the tornadoes."

"Lovely," I replied.

"I'll be right back." She gave John an overly-friendly tap on the shoulder and headed off, leaving the chunks of ice surrounded by the offending liquified sugar which was somehow tinted brown on the table. The lukewarm cups she brought back with her, entirely too quickly, were just as uninspiring. John took a sip anyway, and it was easy to see he instantly regretted it. 

"Thank you..." he somehow managed to choke out.

"Welcome, Hun. Just holler if y'all need anything else."

"Will do." Oh, John, the attempted colloquialism was just short of charming, if not for the fact that I could see the steam that wasn't coming out of your teacup coming out of your ears. She shuffled off to another table.

John sighed. "Tastes like gnat's piss. I mean, it's printed right on the bag. 'Pour boiling water over the tea.' Instructions don't get any simpler and clearer than that, and yet, they still manage to get it wrong." 

"Try not to let it ruin your day. We have a lot of work to do."

"I suppose I'll survive. I'll fare better than Eugene Brakenstall, anyway."

"Ah, there's that dark humour we all know and love. No terrible loss for me. I don't much care for tea, anyway." I knew the second I had said it, even before John reacted in stunned silence. Not good. I hoped the moment would pass without further examination and was about to mention how it was rather odd for the Randall gang, who had recently made off with a rich haul, to do another job so soon thereafter, when he spoke again.

"Well, how on Earth did you manage to perfect your accent, Sherlock? Because you really had me fooled."

Ah, good. I smiled. "Are you doubting my citizenship, John?"

"Oh, just that it was the ongoing joke in Afghanistan. Whenever we had a commander from another country pass through camp, he would never quite understand what was so refreshing about a nice cup of hot tea in near 50 degree weather. The supply blokes said the enemy would gain the advantage if they only could train people to smell the tea leaves to determine our location. Were you traumatised by some loose leaf Ceylon as a child?"

"Well, there was the time I tried to make my own tea from the leaves I'd scavenged in the woods surrounding our home and I had to get my stomach pumped."

John's jaw dropped.

"Fibbing, John. You really should work on that." He laughed, as expected. I can't get enough of that sound. Still making up for lost time.

"Okay, coffee then? Must be that French grandmother of yours..."

"Hmmmm, nooooo, thanks."

He was far too quiet. He poked his finger into the tepid brew and swirled it around distractedly. 

"Well, it'll last twice as long now, at home."

I wasn't ready to go there, but it needed to be said, and quickly. "I like your tea."

" _My_ tea?"

"Yes. You... make it rather well."

"Course I do."

I breathed again. I could feel myself relax, it would be impossible not to notice, even for someone as routinely unobservant as John. Then he tilted his head to the side and looked at me, with an alarming level of confidence.

"Just _my_ tea?"

I think I might have subconsciously swallowed a bit, as I wasn't used to that degree of focus on me, but I calmly answered, "Yes."

"Are we still talking about tea, Sherlock?"

"No. I mean, yes, we are, but... "

"I see."

"Do you?"

I turned to reexamine the interior of the small truckstop cafe. I had already made any worthwhile assessments regarding the place ages ago, but I wanted to know what John truly "saw", and that required more stealth and less direct eye contact. Everything smelt of cigarettes. Frustrating. Brand new 'no smoking' sign indicated a newly-passed ordinance, but the scent came off the clothing of nearly every patron in waves. They weren't happy about the new restriction, no doubt. I caught his face in my peripheral vision as he spoke. 

"You were very worried I would stop making it for you. You were worried the moment you brought it up." More confidence. It was almost comical to see him look so smug. Not quite teasing me, but close. Good natured, but there was something there _I just can't... John is so infuriating. So utterly, infuriating. Maybe it's this tobacco-induced haze that has me so on edge._

"I was unaware I was exhibiting any indication of apprehension regarding..."

"You were. You think I don't know how to observe? Not going to mention your tells, or else you will be examining yourself in front of a mirror for hours looking for them, and erasing them all, and I will lose one of the few advantages I have."

I felt warmer than to be expected in the near freezing temperatures of the restaurant, with this dreadful air conditioning overcompensating for the lingering heat in a country that didn't seem to realise it was already well into autumn. We exchanged smiles. 

_My John. I don't know if we will ever speak it aloud. But I know what it means. You care for me. You love me. In some form. Whatever form it is, it is enough. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking at you, and I think you must know. Maybe we both are waiting. Or maybe it's just me. Either way, there is no way I would ever refuse any offering from you. Surely, that much you already know. For now, I have given an excellent hint._

**Author's Note:**

> The reference to the inability of Yanks to make a good cup of tea is from The Masters of Reality song "T.U.S.A.", which is amazing and definitely worth a listen. "Pour boiling water over the tea. How simply and clear can instructions be?"
> 
> If it sounds vaguely familiar in the beginning it's because I used this scenario in a micro fill for "Sherlock in Your Hometown" ( mine is in North Texas, although it's not truly my hometown), which appears in the collections of miscellaneous writing in AO3.
> 
> I sort of consider this exchange to be part of this fic's Universe:
> 
> John: She said it was right down the street... oh here it is.
> 
> Sherlock: Early 20th century, built during the oil boom, no doubt. What a strange building. Not practical.
> 
> John: She said it was the World's Smallest Skyscraper. It's not exactly scraping the sky now, is it?
> 
> Sherlock: Must be due to the beam construction technique.
> 
> John: She gave me a pamphlet. Right. Beams. And it was built by this McMahon bloke who promised them a 480 foot tall building but...
> 
> Sherlock: Inches!
> 
> John: Yeah. The contract was written in inches.
> 
> Sherlock: One extra tick mark and no one noticed.
> 
> John: They never did get the lift to fit in. There's just a ladder to climb up to the top floor. Says they couldn't sue McMahon because the contract was valid. I bet he left town quick.
> 
> Sherlock:(smiling) A monument to idiocy! Now that is worth seeing! Shall we go inside?
> 
> John: (smiling) Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, oh, oh the lovely WhimsicalEthnographies has done a fantastic remix of this for Wits on Tap 2015 which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3891289

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [only yours](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891289) by [WhimsicalEthnographies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies)




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